Fire
There is nothing else but fire,
crawling under the episupradermacoritical layer of my skin,
spreading out like a slime mould with determination,
at the speed of thought,
which depends on the myelin that lets,
my thoughts jump from node to node,
using ligaments and muscles that,
though I posess them,
and have lived with them all my life,
I cannot remember nor understand,
though the fluid of the blastocoel,
that still remains as a remnant in my body,
peppered with the dying remnants of apoptosing cells,
and transit-amplifying cells ready to divide and replace,
the parts of myself,
left once unnamed,
now categorised and delineated,
geneologies drawn out,
my very being described,
named,
known.